


Semper Paratus

by veronamay



Series: Marine!Sam AU [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, M/M, Military Fetish, Plot What Plot, Tattoos, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-24
Updated: 2007-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Military!Sam strikes again.  For Wendy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Semper Paratus

"Dad really is going to kill you, you know."

They're lying in bed, Dean sprawled over Sam's chest, post-coital bliss making them lazy. Sam can't stop touching him: back, arms, hair, wherever Dean will let him. He feels like he's been starving for three years. He's trying to be cool about it, but Jesus, he's missed this. Missed Dean. Missed Dad even, though he's sure that'll change the minute the man walks in the door.

"It wasn't exactly my idea to join up, Dean," he says. "I didn't have much choice at the time."

"You mean you didn't set out to be one of the few, the proud, the men with stupid haircuts?" Dean lifts his head to look at Sam, eyes bright with amusement. "Shame on you, Sammy. Where's your patriotic spirit?"

"It got exorcised along with those Civil War veterans when I was fourteen." Sam threads his hand in Dean's hair and pushes his head back down. "I got busted hunting on campus, okay? The cops gave me a choice: jail or the military. In hindsight, jail probably would've been more useful. Less macho posturing bullshit, too."

"More chance of dropping the soap," Dean points out.

"I wouldn't bet on it."

Dean's head snaps up sharply, brows drawn together in a semi-scary frown. Sam rolls his eyes at the look and tugs on his hair.

"Relax. There was no ritual bonding sex."

Not that there hadn't been offers, and other suggestions less friendly than an offer; Sam's been over six feet tall since he was seventeen, though, and years of living with John Winchester taught him he can intimidate just about anybody if he really wants to. He used that skill a lot in his first six months; after a minor rash of broken fingers in his unit, word got around and Sam got left alone.

"I wasn't _worried_ ," Dean says, sounding revolted at the very thought, but he kisses Sam's chest and rests his cheek against it, and his arms tighten a little around Sam's waist and shoulder. Sam grins to himself, keeping his poker face on.

"Of course, there _was_ the ritual bonding tattoo," he says casually. "Couldn't get out of that one."

This time Dean sits up like a jack-in-the-box, so fast he elbows Sam's ribs on the way. Sam grunts a complaint, but he doesn't think Dean even registers it; he's too busy looking Sam over, trying to see all of him at once. Sam grins – smirks, really, one of Dean's – and stretches his arms overhead, arching his back and pushing up with his hips. Dean is sitting astride him, and the weight and friction of his two-hundred-some pounds grinds pleasantly into Sam's cock.

"You got a tattoo?" Dean's eyes are everywhere, finding nothing. He meets Sam's gaze, his pupils already dilating. "What the _fuck_ , Sam?"

"I kind of had to. It was a – a thing." Sam waves a hand. "For the honor of the service and all that shit."

Truth be told, he hadn't argued when the other guys in his unit suggested it. He remembers imagining the look on Dean's face when he found out; Dean has a massive tattoo kink, and Sam's always meant to take advantage of it. It was worth every jab of the needle to see the way Dean's looking at him right now.

"Where?" Dean's scooting back, pulling at Sam's bootlaces, trying to undress him the rest of the way. "Show me, dude, I wanna see."

"Hey, careful with those boots. They cost a fortune." Sam sits up without the use of his arms, catches Dean's quick, heated glance at his body and hides another grin.

" _Screw_ the fucking boots," Dean snarls, and then he's got them off and he's attacking Sam's pants, yanking them down his thighs and off before Sam's ass hits the mattress again. Dean's eyes are wide and dark, his breathing choppy. Watching him, Sam realizes: Dean's getting off on this. Like, _really_ getting off. He's not sure how he feels about that – Dean with a tattoo kink is hot; Dean with a military kink is just this side of _weird_ , given, well, _Dad_ \- but then Dean grabs him at hip and shoulder and flips him onto his stomach, and Sam decides he doesn't really care where Dean's motivation comes from as long as he doesn't lose it. Ever.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Sam," Dean breathes, and Sam feels him lightly tracing the tattoo with one finger. Gooseflesh erupts under the touch, and he shivers involuntarily. "Bet that stung like a bitch."

"I don't really—" Sam begins, but cuts off with a stifled moan when he feels Dean's tongue slide over his skin, tasting, and then his lips, open-mouthed, sucking softly at the base of his spine. "Don't remember," he manages. "Too – too drunk."

The wetness disappears, and Sam twists around to see Dean sitting back on his haunches, staring, his mouth slightly open and his hands splayed over Sam's lower back, framing the USMC coat of arms. The ink is stark against pale skin, sharply delineated where his tan ends.

"You've changed," Dean says at last. He's stroking Sam lightly, like petting a cat. Sam fights not to stretch and purr under his hands.

"I grew up." He shifts, turning over fully so he can see Dean properly. "Happens to everyone sooner or later."

"I was starting to wonder if you ever would. Damn late bloomer, Sammy."

Sam aims a lazy swipe at Dean's head; Dean ducks and grips Sam's hips, nudging his thighs apart to lie between. Sam bends his knees and crosses his ankles behind Dean's back, thrusting up, the slip-slide of sweat and come between them easing the way. Their cocks glide together smoothly, and the smell of sex is heavy in the air. Sam breathes it in, getting dizzy on the scent and feel of being _home_.

"Some things never change," he murmurs, and clenches his thighs.

Dean shudders and grinds into his belly slow and hard, fingers sliding into the dip of Sam's spine to trace over the tattoo again.

"Thank God for small favours," he says, and Sam laughs.

"Small? Dude, get the fuck off me."

He runs a hand up Dean's chest, tweaking his nipples, grips his neck and pulls him in for a kiss. It's slow and lazy, deep and wet, tongues tangling and seeking and finding sweet spots old and new. There's a chip on one of Dean's molars that wasn't there three years ago; Sam is fascinated by the new edge, and runs his tongue over it a dozen times, learning the place. He grins when Dean groans low in his throat.

"Fuck me," he whispers, pulling back to run his lips over Dean's stubbled jaw. "Please?"

" _Fuck_ ," Dean grits out, and then he's off the bed and rummaging for lube, tearing open a condom wrapper with his teeth and slicking two fingers, and God, the wet sound makes Sam's stomach flip over. A second later Dean's sliding between Sam's thighs again – fuck, but he can move quick when he wants to – and he, he looks _incredible_ , flushed and fucked-out and hungry, eyes burning with heat. Sam tilts his hips in invitation because he can't do anything else.

"I missed you, Dean. Missed this. Come on; fuck me. Give me a proper homecoming—"

He stops talking then, because Dean pushes those slick fingers inside him and Sam forgets how to breathe. His ass clenches down hard, trapping Dean's fingers inside; Dean grins and hooks them up and in, and Sam tries to stifle his groan but he's not quite quick enough.

"Aha," Dean says, his smirk a mile wide. "Gotcha."

He twists his fingers, curling the tips and circling, rubbing, stroking until Sam's knees are against his shoulders and he's trying to scoot down the bed to get Dean deeper inside.

"Dean, c'mon," he moans, reaching down, holding Dean's wrist. "Enough already, let's _go_."

"You sure, Sammy?" Dean's all teeth, sharp and white and gone again, and he might sound like he's got all day but his cock's a rigid line of heat against Sam's thigh. "I mean, I don't want to rush you—"

Sam growls and lunges up, grabbing Dean's hair and pulling tight. He looks Dean square in the eye and enunciates as clearly as he can.

"Quit fucking around and _fuck me_."

"Sir, yes, sir," Dean whispers, and licks between Sam's lips for a brief dirty kiss. Then he pulls back, shifts down, pushes Sam's legs wider apart and finally - _finally_ \- thrusts inside.

"Slow," Sam gasps, arching up. "Hard. I wanna feel this tomorrow."

Dean's eyes are dark, green all but eclipsed; his hands burn on Sam's skin wherever they touch. He holds Sam down, driving in slow, heavy strokes that make the bed shudder and screech along the floor. Sam closes his eyes – he can't take what Dean's showing him, not yet; all he can take is this, the steady deep friction of Dean's cock in his ass, dragging over his prostate with every thrust, setting his spine alight with a thousand pinpricks of sensation. He pushes his head back into the pillows and grits his teeth, fighting not to come – too soon, always too soon – and shudders when Dean leans down and sets his teeth against his throat, sucking hard.

"I did miss you, you bastard," Dean pants, moving up to bite Sam's jaw. "Felt like a fucking cripple without you. _Fuck._." He slams into Sam again, and the whole bed moves, the headboard banging into the wall. Sam wants to protest, wants to beg for more, but he can't breathe to speak; it feels like Dean's all over him, everywhere, and it's suffocating and pure bliss all at once. He'd forgotten just how _much_ Dean wants.

"M'back now," he says, barely more than breath. "Not going anywhere."

Dean is silent, still pushing long and hard into him, and the headboard is banging a regular gong against the wall. Sam opens his eyes to find Dean staring down at him, gaze shuttered. He opens his mouth to speak again; Dean leans in and kisses him, and Sam's intended promises are lost in a surge of pure _need_ that ought to be impossible, given their current position, but somehow that just makes it worse. He lets go of Dean's hair to wrap a hand around his own cock, stroking rough and hard and whimpering at the feel of it. Dean fucks him in counterpoint, grinding in deep, and Sam squeezes his hand and ass and lets himself come in a spasm of nerves and pearly white streaks that seems to go on forever, jerking and shuddering and panting like a dog.

He feels raw,tenderized from the inside out and Dean is _still going_ , swiping a finger through the spunk on Sam's stomach and licking it clean. His eyes flutter closed and his other hand grips Sam's hip; he reaches up, tries to grab hair that isn't there anymore, but Sam meets him in the middle anyway, opening his mouth and sucking the taste of himself off Dean's tongue.

" _Missed_ you," Dean mouths against his lips, and then he's holding Sam and shuddering, and the headboard's gouging into plasterboard, flecks of paint showering down on them. Dean's silent all the way through his orgasm, as always; Sam slides his arms around him and hangs on, pressing a kiss to one freckled shoulder.

They're quiet afterward, lying side by side, letting their bodies cool down. Sam's tired; he's had more sex in the past hour than in the past year, and Dean's never a _peaceful_ lay even on his off days.

After a few minutes, Dean rolls over and looks at Sam so intently, Sam feels like he's being inspected.

"What?"

Dean keeps looking, runs a finger down Sam's nose and over his lips. Sam licks the tip when it presses inside his mouth, and Dean smiles faintly. He won't meet Sam's eyes, but his face is softer than Sam's ever seen it.

"You gotta grow your hair, dude. You look like a dork."

Dean flops back down and turns on his side, punching his pillow into submission. Sam gazes at the ceiling for a moment, trying not to grin like a moron. Then he spoons up behind his brother, throwing an arm over his hip, and ignores it when Dean's fingers find and tangle with his.

END


End file.
